


The Book of David

by Inky



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Freeform Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:29:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inky/pseuds/Inky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He asks why, because you have never expressed interest in religion, but you respond with ‘There’s an angel in this room isn’t there?’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Book of David

**Author's Note:**

> A freeform drabble that I thought I'd share with all of you.

The first time you hold him in your arms he’s sixteen.

Five feet and eleven inches of trembling, golden angel boy.

His two-toned voice is quiet and subtle, as if hiding from the reality that is his bird form.

He is soft and pliant under your touch and although it is outwardly innocent, you quake at the thought of this boy’s back,

Smooth and perspiring, the color of the orange creamsicles your son loves oh-so much.

But these thoughts elude you because tears slip down his cheeks, staining your white collar shirt orange, apologizing profusely when he realizes the mess he has made.

He tries to leave.

You scoop him up into your arms like a newborn, he is feather light or perhaps it’s because his broken wings unfurl to support his weight,

Damaged,

Telling the tale of a brother he lost, a parent he will never see again, the game had been cruel to him and left him now

Alone

Misplaced

But he will never not be welcome into the strength of your embrace.

Your son prefers the ‘real’ boy and you don’t blame him.

It’s hard seeing a copy of your best friend, a shell of what he once was, floating through life with no feet to walk on, his wings clipped, unable to fly.

 

The second time you hold him, he is eighteen.

Your son is in college, miles away from you.

You and the orange angel are lonely.

A chaste kiss to the lips and that’s all it takes for you to take the trembling angel into your arms, fingers gripping at the expanse of feathers along his back.

His tail is tangible and wraps around your leg as if it’s his final lifeline, squeezing hard enough to cut off circulation.

Those wings

Unfurl for you

For the second time in your life.

It is a religious experience to hold his lithe body in your arms, lay him down upon the bed, comb your fingers through golden feathers, listen to his feeble bird cry.

He’s mortified but you are appreciative and proud of the way he lets his guard down around you.

He tenses when you remove the shades obstructing his eyes, revealing two globes of molten, fiery orange.

It looks more gold than creamsicle orange.

When you enter him he cries out, the female parts of his bird body clamping wildly around the intrusion.

He begs you not to stop, nearly rips your skin apart with sharp talons, begging you for more, more.

You thrust with earnest and you hold your angel in your arms.

His wings wrap around the two of you and when he draws closer, his back arches beautifully off the bed as if he was carved from gold to fit your arms specifically.

He spasms and finishes and he lies submissive and pliant upon your bed, arms raised above his head, lean chest heaving, feathers ruffled.

He’s gorgeous and you tell him this and you don’t expect the sob that bursts forward from deep within his chest.

Every golden drop slips down to the pillow beneath and his arms outstretch, reaching for only you, pulling you in, begging you deliriously not to leave him. Not to leave him ever.

You can’t make that promise.

 

He doesn’t age. The years take their toll on you slowly over time, black fades to grey,

Sharp blue eyes become

Duller and

Duller as years go by, minute by aching minute,

You begin to wither.

Your son has a family of his own now.

They don’t visit as much as you’d like but

Whatever makes your son happy makes you happy

The angel seems to understand when the day has come,

Your orange angel floats around you like a concerned mother would her child, golden wings unfurling for you for what seems like the thousandth time.

You’re in your recliner.

He tucks the knit blanket under your crickety legs and he is silent as your lungs expel wheeze after wheeze of old air but your heart

Pumps just as strongly for your golden angel

As it did that first night you held him

In your strong embrace

When your arms were stable enough

To lift themselves.

His tail flicks nervously.

Your breaths are ragged.

You ask him in a whisper to read to you from the book of David.

He asks why because you have never expressed interest in religion but

You respond with ‘There’s an angel in this room isn’t there?’

He is silent when he leaves to retrieve

The Holy Bible

Cracks it open to the Book of David

He reads from it and then strays to Psalms while you

Gently

Close your eyes

And drift into slumber.

 

In eternal dreams

Even when your earthly body is nothing but

Ashes,

Tossed into the sea by your own request,

You dream of creamsicles and angels with gently

Unfurling wings, a slow cycle repeating itself

Year after pleasant year,

You are warm.

You don’t know how long you’ve been here

Floating lazily by, lucid and partly dreaming,

When you feel the brush of golden wings

See the glint of ridiculous shades

And turn to see his wings

Gently

Unfurling

For you.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow my personal blog on tumblr at porrimicide.tumblr.com


End file.
